


Distinguished Service

by clockheartedcrocodile



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Self Confidence Issues, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 06:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18493462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile
Summary: A formal event shortly after the destruction of the Breach requires Newt to appear in a PPDC dress uniform for the first time in years.Hermann has some thoughts about that.





	Distinguished Service

Newt pokes grimly at his grilled salmon and mentally curses the Hong Kong traffic. Hermann should have been here an hour ago at least.

“I won’t deny that your actions were admirable, if viewed in a certain light,” Dr. Howard is saying, unfolding and re-folding his arms for the sixth time since the conversation started. He’s a tall man with delicate hands and sideburns that threaten to overwhelm him. “But you _must recognize_ that our victory over the kaiju threat- the closing of the Breach, and all that- was pyrrhic at best after we lost the moral high ground.”

Dr. Vino, one of nature’s bachelors, rolls a crystal salt shaker back and forth between finger and thumb. “While I concede that Dr. Geiszler’s actions may have involved a certain amount of rule-breaking, the fact remains that if he had not acted, the planet as a whole would have suffered for it. While the misappropriation of scrap from Shaolin Rogue was _regrettable_ , ultimately, we are the better for it. From this we may conclude that MIT produces, in addition to rule-breakers, a calibre of scientist who _gets things done_ , while Caltech, I confess, seems to produce a kind of, er, _glorified bureaucrat . . ._ ”

Dr. Howard chokes on his drink. “ _Theft,_ Dr. Vino, _theft_ ,” he insists hoarsely. “While I cannot deny Dr. Geiszler’s results, I simply find it astounding that he lasted this long in the PPDC, given his erratic nature and outspoken political views. Think of the lives that might have been preserved, how much _earlier_ we might have ended this war, if we’d had a better calibre of scientist at the front. A _moral_ victory over the kaiju threat, not merely a statistical one.”

Newt sets his wineglass down with a hard clink. His hand clenches hard on the stem. “They didn’t have a better calibre of scientist at the front,” he says lightly. _You weren’t there,_ he wants to scream. _They didn’t have you. They had me and Herm. The apocalypse happened and we were the only ones who showed._

“Yes,” Dr. Howard says gruffly. “Well, that much is obvious. If you’d had a _Caltech_ man on hand, now _then_ . . .”

Newt stares across the table at Hermann’s empty seat. Whoever had arranged the seating cards had placed him there, on the far side, effectively killing any chance Newt had of elbowing him whenever he wanted to complain. Not that it mattered anyway- Hermann is stuck in traffic somewhere, and Newt is here, enduring innumerable affluent scientists and celebrity academics, all with opinions they’re desperate to air out.

The mess hall, which until recently had serviced only those stationed at the Hong Kong Shatterdome, has been transformed. There are candles now, and flags from every country adorning the walls. Newt’s favorite bench has been scooted up against the wall to make way for a number of little round tables to be moved in. Newt almost wants to laugh, thinking of how many lonely lunches he’d passed in this room before giving up on the mess hall altogether and taking his meals in the lab. He’d forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by his peers; for so long it had just been him and Hermann against the world.

It hasn’t been a bad dinner, given the newly-lifted sanctions on rationing. Little portions of beef and fish on plates far too large for them. Strings of sauce draped attractively across each slice. It’s the kind of luxury dining that Newt has always wanted to be seen eating. He carefully picks at another flake of grilled salmon, uncomfortably aware of how tight the damn collar of his uniform is, how it constricts his throat when he swallows.

He hates this thing. Uniforms don’t suit him.

Newt sets his fork down angrily and unbuttons the top two buttons, ignoring Dr. Howard and Dr. Vino’s continued debate. He hasn’t been required to wear a formal dress uniform for a long time, and while he supposes he should be grateful that it hasn’t gotten _too_ snug around the middle, there’s still something about the way it looks on him that makes him feel itchy and stiff. He’d spent a long time contorting in front of the bathroom mirror.

This particular uniform is dark blue, almost black, with the PPDC eagle stamped in faded gold across one shoulder. It had taken Newt nearly twenty minutes to get the buttons shining, after liberal application of spit and one of Hermann’s handkerchiefs.

Earlier this evening, there had been a medal ceremony honoring the heroes of Operation Pitfall, both living and dead. For Newt, that meant the PPDC Eagle of Scientific Excellence, and the PPDC Distinguished Service Medal. It also meant a formal dinner after the ceremony, a dinner which Newt is more than eager to escape.

His medals rest heavy and cold against his chest. He wishes Hermann had been there to see them awarded.

“Ah,” Dr. Vino says grimly, his voice muffled as he wipes his mouth on a napkin. “I see we’re being joined by Dr. Gottlieb. I met him once, you know. In Munich. Rather an unpleasant character.”

Newt glances up from his plate and sits a little straighter as Hermann comes click-clacking down the mess hall towards them, still shedding his rain-soaked parka. He looks windswept and harried, and more than a little embarrassed at the way people’s heads are turning. Newt sees the exact moment he shrinks back into himself, walking a little faster, ducking his head a little lower as he nearly collapses into his chair on the opposite side of Newt’s table.

“Had to walk from two bloody blocks away,” he huffs, setting his cane down next to his chair.

“Herm,” says Newt gratefully. That’s all he says, but he hopes Hermann knows.

“Dr. Thomas Vino,” says Dr. Vino, offering his hand. “We’ve met before.”

“Pleasure, pleasure,” Hermann says distantly, shaking hands all around. His eyes are only on Newt, moving from his face to his medals and back again.

Newt lifts his chin and attempts to look noble. It’s not easy with his bloodstained eye and his hairline threatening to recede. Not exactly the picture of military excellence. It’s hard for Newt to imagine that Hermann Gottlieb, a military groupie through and through, would find him at all appealing.

Yet he knows better now. After the Drift, and the end of the end of the world, a lot of things had become suddenly, painfully clear.

“I’m sorry I missed the ceremony,” says Hermann, who has been learning to apologize.

“It’s cool,” says Newt, who has been learning to accept apologies. “It’s all good. How do I look?”

It comes out more awkwardly insecure than he meant it too. Newt smooths down the lines of his uniform with shaking hands and tries to ignore how uncomfortably hot it feels, now that he’s subjected to Hermann’s scrutiny. He knows now that for Hermann, the spotlights have only ever been on Newt; a dizzying realization for a man who’s spent a lifetime bowing and scraping for attention.

Hermann rubs his mouth with his hand, and Newt can see something warm and curious in his expression. His eyes flicker from Dr. Vino to Dr. Howard and back again. He doesn’t dare speak- public displays of affection, and all that- so Newt licks his lips awkwardly and spreads his arms as though presenting himself. “I think I look pretty good. Tendo whom?”

This pronouncement is met with disturbed confusion from the other scientists, and a truly spectacular eye roll from Hermann. Newt sputters a laugh against his hand. He has to bend over with the force of trying to keep his laughter down. “Excuse me?” Dr. Howard says archly, looking from one to the other. “I’m sorry, have I missed something?”

“Nothing,” Newt says hoarsely, momentarily overwhelmed by how full his heart feels, throbbing a steady pulse of _love, love, love_ against his ribcage. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Hermann clears his throat. “Erm, Newton, I’m not exactly here for my health. I have something I need to discuss with you.”

“Sure dude, shoot.”

“In _private._ ”

“I don’t think-” says Dr. Howard, as Newt scoots his chair back from the table with a metallic screech.

“Gimme a sec,” he says lightly, relishing the look on Dr. Howard’s face. “I have to confer with my partner.”

Hermann gives him a dire look and plants his cane into the ground, hoisting himself out of his chair on it. “Yes, gentlemen,” he says stiffly. “We’ll rejoin you momentarily. Wouldn’t want to miss dessert.”

 

Hermann swipes his keycard at the entrance to his quarters, locking them in. Newt loves that little _beep_ like nothing else. It comes with an easing of the shoulders, a sweet exhale of relief when that door closes behind them, leaving them alone in the hazy, artificial light of Hermann’s room. Like a lover’s embrace after a tiring day.

Most social engagements end like this, and had even before the Drift. Hermann has stood by the wall at innumerable parties, holding a drink like protective coloration, watching Newt embarrass himself amid the wreckage of other people’s conversations. A lightweight tolerance and an abundance of opinions on movies he hasn’t seen makes Newt the most insufferable of guests; Hermann usually shuffled him out the door by eleven, apologizing left and right to the other guests.

Newt had always thought he was just an inconvenience- another reason for Hermann to hate him- but somewhere in the flickering, mirror-deep expanse of Hermann’s mind he had found that Hermann loved any excuse to leave a party early.

Not that they got invited to many parties during the war.

When they did, though, they usually ended here. In Hermann’s quarters, cramped and tipsy and exhausted. Hermann would smuggle a few beers in from Herc’s locker so Newt could drink, Newt would disable the smoke alarm so Hermann could smoke, and they’d pass the hours in nigh incomprehensible conversation until Hermann kicked Newt out.

Newt misses those days. Even if what they have now is better. Much better.

“You didn’t actually want to talk, did you,” says Newt. As though in response, Hermann reaches out and touches his fingertips to the first of Newt’s new medals.

They aren’t the only medals he’s received for his service, but they’re by far the most prestigious. Newt stands still and allows Hermann to test the weight of the golden one in his palm.

He’d give a lot to know what he’s thinking.

“It’s been some time since you last wore a dress uniform,” Hermann says quietly, almost to himself.

Newt’s mouth is dry. He swallows. “Uh-huh.”

“I suppose I . . . I didn’t fully appreciate it until now. You ought to wear it more.”

“Yeah . . . Good idea.”

“I’m full of good ideas, Newton, if you’d bother to listen.”

Newt smiles awkwardly, lets out a sigh that’s almost a laugh, and Hermann leans in closer to leave a lingering kiss at the corner of Newt’s mouth. His other hand rises to cautiously spread itself across the insignia on Newt’s shoulder, and _oh,_ oh he _likes_ the uniform, and Newt feels his cock twitch with unexpected interest.

“Don’t worry about the fit,” Hermann murmurs. He squeezes Newt’s upper arm, too distracted by Newt’s mouth to be aware that he’s doing it. “You look . . . you . . .”

“Yeah?” Newt licks his lips. “Y’know . . . and I mean, I hesitate to even say it, _but_ . . .”

“Newton,” Hermann mumbles in exasperation, pressing his forehead against Newt’s shoulder. His hand slips from Newt’s arm to move down into the small of his back.

“I _think_ . . . you might like the uniform.”

“I don’t know what on earth would give you that impression.”

Newt smiles hopefully and presses Hermann closer to him, allowing himself, for a moment, to feel like he looks good. Sexy, even. Confident. He tries to communicate a little of that confidence in the way his hands move against Hermann’s back.

The Drift had left room for no mysteries between them. No dark, hidden corners of the mind that had not been illuminated by popping synapses and the brilliant, sparkling light of conscious thought. He knew about Hermann’s fascination with the military, and how deep that fascination ran, with the same familiarity with which he knew his own desires. So Hermann finds a man in uniform arousing-so what? Newt has been aroused by more shameful things, certainly.

Those hadn’t been the only fantasies he saw there, reflected in fractals across the infinite, inward-facing mirrors of the brain. Base concepts like _your mind_ and _my mind_ were meaningless in the Drift, where thoughts intermixed with thoughts, and dreams with dreams. Newt can no longer remember who fantasized about crushing the lightbulb at their wedding, or pressing one another’s bare backs against the cold metal floor of the lab, or Newt tearing open a condom with his teeth and slinging Hermann's good leg around his hip, promising to be good for him, so good, I promise.

Hermann hasn’t moved beyond letting himself be held, his breath warm and damp against Newt’s neck. Newt awkwardly shifts his arm, just enough to take his glasses off and tuck them into the pocket of his uniform. He can feel that Hermann wants to do more. He can feel it in the way his heartbeat throbs against Newt’s hands, and the way he settles in against Newt like he wants to slide into that uniform with him. But Hermann wanting to be touched is a new, _wonderful_ thing that Newt is desperate to live up to, and he won’t rush him. Not if he can help it.

No, Newt thinks idly, as Hermann’s hands slide up his back to feel out the seams of his jacket. It’s not a new thing at all, is it, but Newt, in his blindness, hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t known how deeply Hermann had wanted to be touched, how firmly he believed that touch wasn’t available to him. Newt had never been enough so satisfy any of his past boyfriends, but _somehow,_ for Hermann, he was enough.

 _Go on,_ he thinks, letting his eyes fall closed. _Take, take, take. Take whatever you want, man. You have no idea how much I’ll give._

So he holds still, and lets Hermann give him another lingering kiss on the cheek, and thinks very, very hard about not holding Hermann’s head still and licking into his mouth. That’s not how Hermann is. He has to do it _his_ way or not at all, damn him. Newt does not like to wait for things- he sees what he wants and chases it, hands outstretched, grasping. Greedy for so much, longing just to take, to consume, to _gratify_. He crashes through the world like a kaiju in a cardboard city.

But Hermann . . . for Hermann, he will wait. Newt has waited for ten years, and he would have waited twenty. He waited until the end of the world.

Newt will endure Hermann’s restraint as long as he has to. Hermann is worth waiting for.

“You look very good like this,” Hermann murmurs. He smooths his hands down Newt’s neck, as though steadying him. “Unfortunately, stubborn as you are, I don’t know that I’ll ever convince you of that.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not exactly a Jaeger pilot,” says Newt gently. “Nobody’s putting me on any recruitment posters.”

“I’m hardly an adequate physical specimen myself.”

“But here we are.”

“Yes,” says Hermann simply. “Here we are. Willing to endure each other.”

He kisses Newt deeper, his hands seeking and grasping at the lines of Newt’s uniform, and Newt wraps his arms around him as he kisses back. _Yeah, I can pretend,_ he thinks, groaning as Hermann moves down to his throat. _Let’s play the game where I look good in a uniform, and you have the dignified beauty of a silent film star. Let’s play the game where we’re lovers._

“How regal you must have looked,” Hermann all but whimpers against Newt’s neck. “On stage, all the spotlights on you. Where you belong.”

“It was alright,” Newt murmurs. “I wish you’d been there. Sitting in the front row, and always the first to clap.”

Hermann huffs a weak little laugh against Newt’s collarbone.

“Or roll your eyes, or whatever,” Newt agrees, grinning. “I’d rather listen to your bullshit than Dr. Howard’s.”

Hermann’s fist clenches against Newt’s chest, then relaxes. “Damn,” he murmurs. “I forgot.”

“I know you did.”

“They’ll be expecting us.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Newt says, with great emphasis. “I was just starting to enjoy this whole _being appreciated_ thing.”

Hermann nuzzles one more kiss against Newt’s neck, right where the bladed crest of a kaiju peeks over his collar. “Don’t let it go to your head, dear.”

Newt strokes his hands lovingly over Hermann’s back and closes his eyes. He can remember the first time they did this- just touching each other, lying awake for most of the night, enamored with the way such a simple sensory impression was magnified a hundredfold by the ghost Drift.

They had been in the Hong Kong Shatterdome then, with the party to end all parties raging around them, and all Newt had wanted to do was hole up in some dark, private corner with Hermann and resume the fervent conversation that had passed between them in the helicopter out of Hong Kong. Newt stumbling over Hermann’s words and Hermann over Newt’s, neither sure who was speaking who’s thoughts and both of them past caring. Two men, terrified and elated beyond all reason by the horrors science had wrought, turning on every light and clinging to each other’s company in the comparative safety of their bedroom.

Newt smiles sadly, gives Hermann one last little squeeze. “We gotta get out there, don’t we.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“They’ll be wondering where we are.”

Newt presses one last kiss into Hermann’s crooked mouth and pulls away, his grin growing wider. “We could do it tonight,” he teases, rubbing the small of Hermann’s back. “No one to bother us, no one to pry. I could like, dirty talk you, y’know. Pretend I’m a military hero.”

Hermann smiles, eyes half closed as he tilts Newt’s chin a little higher. “No need to pretend, is there?”

Newt swallows. He clasps his hands behind his back, keeps his head high as Hermann unlocks the door. He can hear the distant sounds of formal conversation; the dinner is still ongoing.

“Tonight,” says Hermann. He gestures towards the door with an awkward little bow.

“Tonight,” Newt agrees. Then he puts on his bravest face, and walks to the mess hall with a straight back and even steps.


End file.
